


Baby, It's Cold Inside

by underpasskid



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 14:07:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underpasskid/pseuds/underpasskid
Summary: Basically giving Victor some backstory/motive into what fueled his decision to coach Yuri, aka hello victor here's a taste of ennui and loneliness don't worry it gets better.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wow at my title. This is my first fic ever. It's a bit directionless at the moment, but I'm sure I'll come up with something for it.

He knows what it is the moment he sees the caller ID, and his stare bores holes into the screen. He actually, genuinely contemplates not picking up for a while before feeling like too much of an asshole. Sighing, he swipes the green button.

Victor doesn’t even need to say ‘hi’ in greeting, because,

“VICTOR _,”_ she gasps in one audible breath.

“Hi, Alyona,” a small smile flickering at his lips, not quite catching aflame. “What’s up.”

“I’m so so so glad you picked up. You were the first person I thought of—anyway, I just—I should just come out and say it. I’m _engaged,_ Victor, I—”

Like he said, he knew what it was the moment he saw her caller ID. It was only a matter of time, really. Alyona and her boyfriend had no glaring issues, they got on like real friends, they even did a bit of travelling together before admitting to themselves that it wasn’t for them—they hadn’t even fought against that conclusion, merely resigned themselves to domesticity a long time ago. Really, he isn’t surprised. Seems like there’s a wedding, or babies, or a new girlfriend or boyfriend every alternate day now.

Victor, he has a lot of friends. He’s 27. This is the norm.

“Ah, Alyona,” he forces the inflection in his voice, “Congratulations!”

“Victor, please come to the wedding. It’s in 3 months. There is a girl—she’s a bridesmaid—she’s a real dear. I think you would love to meet her, Victor. And—"

There’s no real grip in the way he holds the phone up to his ear. He’s skating around lazily, quietly thinking that he shouldn’t answer calls while he’s in the rink. Who knows, this time he might actually get distracted and lose balance, like Yakov always warned. Maybe this time. He almost hopes. At least that would mean something new happened this week.

And also, he can’t quite believe it has come to this. Was it not just two years ago, Alyona was outside his apartment door, her cold hands shaking, one of them holding a gift box, the other ringing a doorbell? And when Victor answered, was it not Alyona, whose voice shook—partly from the cold, partly from the nervousness—as she confessed her love for him, before he could even invite her in? And was it not Victor who sat her on the couch, made her hot chocolate, kissed her forehead, and whispered,

_My dear Aly, I’m sorry. It isn’t like that between you and me. I have no time to date. My work is my life._

And now, she has moved on so far that this memory feels incredulous, like something he dreamed up. For her, this was a hundred different selves ago.

For Victor, that was the most recent occurrence he can recall of someone telling him they loved him in a romantic way, and actually meaning it.

Alyona is happy. She talks, her voice animated and in disbelief. And the beating in Victor’s chest feels so weak in comparison to hers. He feels too tired to go on feigning shock and joy, the strong emotions they are. So he gives her the age old excuse, _sorry—ah, Aly—sorry, I really do need to work on this new jump. Yes, I’ll be there—promise—ha, okay, fine, I’ll meet her—yes. Alri—congrats again by the way! Ha, see you soon too, love. Send my regards to the lucky groom! Bye!_

He feels like an asshole. But this has been the third engagement this week and he feels like he has the right to be an asshole, to be honest. Really. Why are they so overwhelmingly happy? And why do they think they have a right to parade their overblown happiness in his face? Theirs is not a special story—everyone’s getting engaged.

Everyone’s getting engaged.

Victor, is a lone shadow in the dying evening sun. Soon, they’ll turn on the rink lights. He skates a few misshapen, purposeless circles, before deciding that he doesn’t want to wait around for night time to come to the rink, because that’s when it opens—that’s when noisy, happy, dirty families come onto the ice, with their children who skate with not a drop of self-preservation, being a danger to everyone around them, with their parents not giving a shit. That’s when the high school couples come onto the ice, their hands shyly linked, their faces full of hope. Victor will be one lone marble statue, towering over everyone in his grandeur, painfully eye catching and out of place. He doesn’t want to be that person tonight. So he leaves, stopping by a shawarma stand, before taking the metro home.


End file.
